


dim the lights (so they don't blind us)

by lavendrsblue



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Threesome - F/M/M, honestly whichever floats your boat: it's that one, i can't put any more tags i'm too ashamed, i hate that i created not one but TWO tags to post this fic, the title of this gdoc is 'put me in the trash where i belong'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-23 20:10:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21087119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavendrsblue/pseuds/lavendrsblue
Summary: I have something for you,Sylvain had texted as she was gathering her things to leave work.Annette enjoys a show.





	dim the lights (so they don't blind us)

**Author's Note:**

> just... don't think about it too hard. please.
> 
> title from "flex" by fifth harmony, because of Themes

It was the quiet that should have tipped her off.

** _I have something for you_**, Sylvain had texted as she was gathering her things to leave the office. She’d paused, scarf wound halfway around her neck. 

_ A surprise! For what occasion? _

** _You’re just so good to me & Felix, Annette~_ **

_ Ha ha ha. What is it really? _

** _Hurry home and see~_ **

And that was all. So she’d hurried home as requested, nearly dropping the key with the cat sticker in her haste to get the door open, and opened the door to—Felix’s empty apartment. 

She’d expected a gift box on the kitchen table, maybe, or the savory aroma of a delicious dinner being cooked. But the table was covered only in its usual mess of Felix’s junk mail, the couch overtaken by a pile of laundry waiting to be folded. No signs of Felix or Sylvain, only the old analog clock by the door ticking the same as always, as if to say, _ You thought there’d be something special? _

“Felix?” she calls into the silent apartment. She lets the door slam behind her, rattling the frame. “Sylvain—are you here?”

“Ah!” Sylvain’s muffled voice from another room. “Annette, finally! Took you long enough.” 

A sigh of relief escapes her lips, and she immediately feels silly. Childish to get so worked up (and then so down) about a surprise that may or may not exist. It wouldn’t be the first time Sylvain revealed a “surprise” of an unpleasant variety, so best not to get overexcited. 

She braces herself for what might lay in the bedroom as she crosses the small apartment: her favorite cooking pot burnt to a crisp, or a giant blue stain on the carpet, or—

—Felix, flushed red across his shoulders and down his chest, perched on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide, hands pinned behind his back; Sylvain behind him, one hand pumping Felix’s cock, the other teasing his hole.

“Hello, darling,” says Sylvain brightly. Felix tips his head back to rest on Sylvain’s shoulder, panting. 

“Ah,” says Annette, hands tightening around her bag.

Sylvain pouts. “That’s the only reaction I get? How about, ‘Oh Sylvain, you always have the best ideas,’ or, ‘Oh Sylvain, this is a better surprise than I could have ever imagined’—”

“Oh, Sylvain,” she says, sweet, obliging. She doesn’t miss the way two sets of eyes track her hands as she unwinds her scarf. “You’re doing a whole lot of talking and not a lot of fucking.” 

“That works,” says Sylvain mildly, twisting his hand. Felix lets out a groan through clenched teeth.

“You could go faster,” he complains. 

“How rude. You haven’t even said hello to Annie, and she’s wearing that lovely skirt today.”

“Fuck you,” Felix spits, then turns his head to say, in a completely opposite tone, “You look pretty.”

“Always the sweet talker,” she teases, and steps forward—Felix’s eyes widen—to peck him on the lips, chaste. His exhale is almost a whine as she moves away. She adds, “He does have a point, Sylvain.”

“Oh?” Sylvain pauses in his mission to mark up Felix’s shoulders with his teeth. “You don’t want to join in? I can wait.” 

“Mm, not yet. It’s just, it’s been _ such _ a long week—” She undoes the buttons of her shirt one by one; Sylvain licks his lips— “and I’m _ so _ tired, I’d just _ love _ to sit back and relax for a minute.” 

He grins, shit-eating. “Only a minute?” 

“Maybe a few,” she amends. 

“I can do that.”

“You’d better,” snaps Felix. “If you make me wait any longer I’ll get blue—”

“Don’t be vulgar, Felix—”

“You _ fucking_—”

Annette clears her throat. The way Felix freezes mid-sentence is truly golden.

“I have an idea,” she says. They both turn to look at her, and the twinned intensity makes her momentarily shy. “If Sylvain gets you ready, then I could do a, uh. I mean, the more I take off, the more he… does to you.”

“You’re a genius, Annie,” breathes Sylvain. Felix, in lieu of speaking, scrambles for the lube.

So she takes her time shrugging off her coat, goes to the closet and hangs it up neat. The zipper of her skirt is so loud in the small room, with the only other sound being Felix’s ragged breathing as Sylvain spreads him open on his fingers. She’s grateful for the cold weather: lots of layers to slowly peel off, giving Sylvain enough time to make Felix start squirming, impatient. 

Felix is always so deliberately kind to her, so thoughtful in his actions. It would be cruelty to make him wait too long, she thinks as she toes off her socks. 

She leaves her underwear and bra on—she likes it when they take it off her—and settles onto the bed, leaning against the wall, close enough to run her fingers through Felix’s hair the way he likes. 

“You can do it now,” she tells Sylvain. 

Felix bristles as Sylvain nudges him onto hands and knees. Impressive for a man who’s just had three fingers inside him, to get embarrassed _ now_. But Felix is cute like that.

“You don’t have to say it—_ah_, hah.” He breaks off as Sylvain pushes into him, dropping to his elbows to ease the feeling.

Sylvain leans forward to press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “How do you want it, sweetheart? Fast or slow?”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” pants Felix, his entire torso shaking.

“Fast it is, then,” says Sylvain, and snaps his hips forward, making Felix cry out, knuckles white against the bedsheets.

He wasn’t wrong—Felix doesn’t like to take it slow, with Sylvain. He likes to fuck fast and hard, scratching, leaving bruises he can prod later. 

It’s both like and unlike when he’s with Annette: same intensity, different flavor. Sometimes he’ll tease her till tears are streaming, overstimulated, falling apart. At other times he’ll relinquish total control, so rare for him, and she’ll deny him until he begs for release. Mostly it falls somewhere in between. 

But every time, he gives her that same all-consuming focus. It could knock a girl out (though he hasn’t actually, yet).

With those memories at the forefront of her mind, she dips her fingers into her underwear with a quiet moan, watching as Sylvain finds and builds a rhythm. When they do this she tries to match their pace: when Sylvain pulls almost all the way out, teasing, her fingertips brush ever so lightly around her clit; when he slams back in, she presses hard, shuddering, as Felix stuffs his face into a pillow to muffle his sounds.

She can _ see _ the muscles bunch in Felix’s shoulders as he pushes back, shoving himself deeper on Sylvain’s cock, and drinks in the moan that drips from Sylvain’s mouth. She shifts forward a little, tilting her hips up, getting her fingers a little deeper inside herself. The angle is just right, now, to rock her hips into her hand, clit massaged by the base of her palm, and all of a sudden she’s _ so close_. 

“You first, Annie,” gasps Sylvain, and damn if his timing isn’t perfect. She tips her head back and the orgasm hits her slow and languid, rolls over her in one cresting wave, warms every inch of her body with the glow. 

When she floats back down to her senses, Felix is making those high, soft, delicious noises he makes when he’s close—Annette shivers and her body pulses, murmuring for a second round. 

Felix reaches a hand toward her, palm upturned. “Annette, c’mere, please—” 

He always wants to be close to someone when he comes. He likes to pull her in tight and press his face to her neck and feel the warm weight of her bearing down, or to grab Sylvain by the hair and drag him in for a bruising, sloppy kiss—though he’ll never say it, of course. He loves the skin-to-skin contact; the craving practically radiates off him. 

So she goes willingly, turning onto her back and wiggling so she’s somewhat underneath him. With one hand she laces their fingers together, gets the other in his hair and yanks hard to pull him down for a kiss—she knows he loves that too. He groans against her mouth, straining toward her until he can’t properly reciprocate, until he’s gasping openmouthed. She lavishes kisses on the corner of his mouth, his chin, the sharp line of his jaw, as he comes silently, shaking, forehead pressed hard against hers. 

Ever reliable, Sylvain maintains his pace until Felix is spent, stopping only when he slumps forward to rest his head on his forearms. Annette leans in to kiss his temple as his breathing evens out, gentle so as not to overstimulate him.

“Tell me you’re good—” The physical strain is audible, Sylvain’s voice shaking as much as his arms, holding himself up. “Felix, I need you to—”

“I’m good.” Felix raises his head just enough to level a glare back at him. He’s a touch hoarse, but unwavering. “You know I can take it.”

“Holy _ shit _,” says Sylvain. 

Evidently this is all it takes—which is fair, because that was maybe one of the single most attractive things Annette has ever witnessed. 

Sylvain starts up his rhythm again, ramping up faster than before. The familiar smack of skin on skin gets into Annette’s head, and she lets her fingers drift downward, dragging lazily over herself as she watches. They make a lovely (if filthy) picture, Sylvain’s bright head lowered to meet Felix’s dark one, Sylvain’s freckles and splotchy blush against Felix’s pale skin. 

Felix reaches up to tangle a hand into Sylvain’s hair and _ pulls_. The effect is instantaneous: Sylvain moans and presses in, grinding hard and deep—Felix gasps and grits his teeth—and as always Sylvain is noisy when he comes, his voice broken and gasping as he rides it out.

He slumps forward on top of Felix—or, he does for about five seconds, until Felix grunts at him and slaps his ass in the universal language for _ get off me_. Sylvain bites his neck in revenge, not hard enough to leave a mark, and grasps himself at the base of the condom to pull out.

Once he’s cleaned up, Sylvain clambers back into the too-small bed and gets all over her, crowding in close. “Annie, Annie—” He flutters kisses over her face, and she giggles, tilting her face up to receive them. “Did you like your surprise? Was it a good show?”

Felix, facedown in the blankets, mumbles something that sounds like, “Don’t objectify me, asshole.” 

Sylvain ignores him in favor of picking up one of Annette’s hands and kissing her knuckles, like the ridiculous gentleman he pretends not to be. “Well, _ did _ you enjoy it?”

“Yes, of course,” she says, indulging him only a little. He smiles a real smile, lighting up, and pulls her in.

Sylvain, to his credit, is a fantastic kisser. He’s had plenty of practice, and he really does treat it as _ practice _, striving to improve with each new participant. (He’d told her as much, back at the beginning, after his kisses left her weak in the knees for the third time in a row.) He distracts her now with lips and tongue to ease the glide of his finger between her folds. 

If she’s completely honest, she kind of prefers his kissing to his fingering. 

Of course, she will never tell him this, lest he cease either activity.

She can _ feel _ Felix pouting through his afterglow as she pulls Sylvain closer, deepening their kiss. When he unhooks her bra and moves lower, to her collarbone, to her breasts, teasing her skin between his teeth, she sighs out her satisfaction, eyelids fluttering shut. 

“Share,” Felix demands. 

Sylvain’s laugh puffs hot and damp against her stomach. In rare demurral, he shifts over to let Felix settle in on Annette’s other side. She blinks him into focus, a little dazed and a lot satisfied about their new position.

“Something you wanted?” she asks, unable to hold back a grin.

Felix’s eyes darken. “My turn,” he says, and he takes hold of her chin and pulls her in. 

Kissing Felix is a completely different experience: he kisses with the same laser-focus that he devotes to anything he really cares about, that intensity that makes it feel like all the air has been sucked out of the room. 

He kisses her like he’s never wanted to do anything else more—like his whole life has been leading up to this moment, the two of them pressed together, sharing breaths.

“Mm, help me out here,” says Sylvain, somewhere below her. 

Annette cracks one eye open—really, at this time? But he’s not addressing her; she hears the click of the lube cap, and then two more fingers are sliding in, _ underneath _ Sylvain’s. 

She squirms in the blankets, gasping at the stretch as they fuck her with three fingers, Felix’s hand guiding, Sylvain’s palm against her clit, stroking little circles over her inner thigh with his thumb. 

A brush of lips at her ear: “All right?” Sylvain, checking in. She nods, shuddering. 

She could melt into this feeling and stay here forever, their fingers intertwined inside her. But all too soon—several minutes, or maybe a couple hours—Felix, regrettably, breaks her _ very _ comfortable cycle.

“You’re going too slow,” he admonishes, and then all the fingers are gone.

She whines at the loss, clenching around nothing. But before she can draw breath to complain, Felix has slid off the bed onto his knees. He hauls her toward him—dear lord, those arm days with Dimitri are doing _ wonders_—and throws her legs over his shoulders and all but shoves his face against her, pushing his tongue as deep as it’ll go, the tip of his nose pressing hard against her clit. She nearly screams at the burst of sensation, arching off the bed, heels sliding uselessly against his back. 

Sylvain whistles low, appreciative. She can’t even glare at him because she’s too overwhelmed, Felix is _ overwhelming _ when he gets like this, all hungry and determined and hellbent on making her come again. And besides, Sylvain is sliding a supporting hand under her lower back so she can prop up on her elbows, kissing her neck and whispering ridiculous things, _ you’re doing so good, you look so beautiful _. It’s not five minutes before she’s coming again, thighs shaking where they’re clamped around Felix’s head, crying out, digging her nails into Sylvain’s arms hard enough to leave welts (she knows he likes that stuff anyway).

Felix flicks his tongue against her clit as she comes down, teasing, and she jerks at the sensation, too blissed out to protest. The way he extricates himself from her limbs and moves her gently to lay longways in the bed is exceedingly gentle—at odds with the smugness radiating off him as he fits himself next to her. 

“Good?” he asks. She can’t even roll her eyes.

“Shut up,” she mumbles against his shoulder. 

The last thing she registers before she drifts off is Sylvain’s laughter, shaking the bed, and the pinfeathers of Felix’s hair, his head tucked against her chest. 

**Author's Note:**

> the best part of this fic is the line about felix and dimitri doing arm day together. i will never write again. goodbye


End file.
